A Night at the Symphony
by SeenaC
Summary: 2 people who like each other go out and have fun, but it's NOT a date! Next part of my continuing narrative. Slash - but no explicit content.  See warnings inside.  NOW COMPLETE!  Final chapter:  John faces bedtime with his newly discovered feelings.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story begins immediately after "Sherlock Holmes Saves a Marriage."

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, no profits.

**Warnings:** Definitely slash, but nothing on the physical level yet. If fluff rots your teeth, you may want to pass. There may be some mild profanities.

**Special thanks:** To Jarri Scythe for being such a wonderful beta-reader. I am so grateful!

A Night At The Symphony

I collected my now-pressed formal suit from Mrs. Hudson and carried it upstairs to the flat. I went to go put it away in my room, as I was not going to be needing it for several more hours yet. I walked up to my now mostly unused bedroom and hung the suit carefully on the backside of the door.

I dragged my large, flat shoe storage box out from under the bed and got the dress shoes out, intending to polish them for that night. The storage box had a handy compartment for storing polish, brushes and rags in addition to shoes. I had felt a little like Imelda Marcos or something, buying a special box devoted to shoes, but it's clever design for under-bed storage had appealed to my military-ingrained urge toward neatness.

I was sitting there arranging my polishing supplies when Sherlock came up and found me.

"I was thinking that maybe we would want to grab an early dinner at Angelo's before the symphony," he said.

"Sounds good to me," I said.

"So I'm going to go ahead and take my shower now, as I take longer to get ready than you do," Sherlock continued.

"Fine," I replied, still working over my shoes.

There was a pause, and Sherlock wasn't leaving, so I looked up at him questioningly.

"Why don't you go ahead and move all your clothes and stuff to the bedroom?" he asked.

I shrugged, "Just haven't gotten around to it, I guess."

"I've cleared out space in the closet for you, and I can help you move your dresser if you'd like. I've made space for it as well."

"Ok, well, you take your shower and I'll start bringing my things down. We can move the dresser tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded and then left; shortly after that I heard the shower start.

I finished polishing my black dress shoes and put them carefully back in my shoe box. I was about to shove it back underneath my bed when I stopped, shrugged, and picked it up and brought it downstairs to our now shared bedroom.

I went to shove the box under the bed, but it got hung up on something. Whatever it was, it was preventing the box from sliding completely under the bed, but the object seemed to be soft, with some give to it.

I wasn't particularly anxious to thrust my hand under Sherlock's bed to investigate something soft and squishy, so I went in search of a torch.

After locating one in the kitchen I came back and peered underneath the bed. Much to my surprise, what I found was a balled-up blanket. A decidedly familiar looking blanket, at that. I reached in and pulled out what was undoubtedly my old blanket, the one Sherlock had stolen from me after the Pool Incident.

I was staring at it, a bit dumbfounded, when I remembered Sherlock telling me he had used it for an experiment. I dropped it and backed away.

I didn't see anything immediately wrong with it, so I carefully spread it out. I still didn't find any evidence of foul-play: no disgusting stains, or burn marks, or any other sign that it had suffered ill-treatment. I cautiously sniffed at it, and smelled only dust, and perhaps a faint whiff of Sherlock's shampoo.

I set it aside, as Sherlock was still in the bathroom, I'd ask him about it later. In the meantime, I busied myself with continuing to move my relatively small collection of clothing from my bedroom to Sherlock's. Just as he'd said, there was space in the closet next to Sherlock's clothes, which all seemed to consist of dark-colored suits and silk dress shirts of varying hues.

It gave me a rather odd feeling to look at my clothes hanging next to his. I started to question what I was doing, but became nervous at direction my thoughts were going. I shook my head and went back to work.

I took the drawers from my dresser and carried them downstairs so that the empty dresser would be lighter and easier to carry. I stacked them up in the spot that I assumed that Sherlock intended to place the dresser.

By the time I finished with all of that, Sherlock had come out of the bathroom in his dressing gown, his hair still slightly damp. He came in the bedroom where I was still organizing and storing. I saw his eyes settle on my blanket, balled up on the floor at the foot of the bed. His face assumed the closed, neutral expression he used when he was either defensive or uncomfortable about something.

"Sherlock, why was my blanket under the bed?"

"I forgot it was there."

"But why was it there? I thought you'd said you'd thrown it away."

"I never said that," he paused, "I got you a new one."

"I appreciate that, but I'd appreciate even more if you would tell me why I couldn't have my own blanket back."

Sherlock shifted his weight on his feet a few times, maintaining his blank expression. I kept a steady gaze on him. He wasn't going to wriggle out of this one.

After another pause he said, "It was the only thing that got the smell of chlorine out of my nose...after...the Pool."

He swallowed, shifting his weight again.

I threw up my hands, "Well, you could have just said so! Why all the cloak and dagger?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

I took a deep breath and continued, "Sherlock, it was a traumatic experience, even for us, and we each have been through a lot. And, for a minute, we believed that we were going to lose each other. So, yeah, needing a...security blanket," (I was very careful not to smile), "after something like that really isn't at all strange or something to feel ashamed of."

Sherlock looked insulted, "I didn't need a security blanket! I only needed..." he stopped.

"What?" I asked.

He hesitated then said, "I needed something to remind myself that you were ok...when you weren't around."

"I wish you would have said something."

"I couldn't."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I just couldn't."

I sighed, "If it were to happen again, would you tell me?"

"Of course, John. Things are...different," he waved his arms vaguely around the room, "now."

"Good. Because, you know I'm here for you, right? You don't have to suffer in silence. Otherwise, why are we doing," it was my turn to wave around vaguely, "this?"

He swallowed again and nodded, looking at his feet, he then looked up and gave me a tentative smile.

Impulsively, I drew him into a hug, which he returned awkwardly. His body was very warm from the shower. He smelled moist and faintly of mint and citrus from his shampoo and soap. I caught myself instinctively running my hands over his body to check and see how much I could feel his bones. I was always worried about him being underweight. I stopped when I felt Sherlock tense and pull away slightly.

"Sorry," I said, "can't help it. As your doctor, I can't help wanting to check up on you when I get the chance."

Sherlock seemed a bit pink in the face as he turned away and started rummaging in his drawers.

"Well," I said, "I guess I'll take my shower now. You through in there?"

I saw Sherlock nodding his head.

"All right, see you in a bit, then."

The whole thing felt a bit awkward, but I wasn't quite sure why.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Warning - Fluff, fluff and more fluff...

**Disclaimer: **I have made some attempt here to describe John's army experience. I am NOT attempting to endorse any particular point of view on politics, policies, or military action.

**Special Thanks: **Again to Jarri Scythe for her beta work!

A Night at the Symphony - 2

Later, after I had showered and put on my suit, I was up in my old room attempting to tie my tie. I simply couldn't master getting it symmetrical and level. It wanted to fold forward and tilt. After several attempts I finally stomped downstairs for some assistance.

Sherlock was in his room in front of the mirror fussing with his cuffs.

"Sherlock," I said, "I know you showed this to me last time, but I just can't seem to get the hang of doing this bloody tie."

"Here, I'll help. I don't mind showing you again," said Sherlock as he positioned me in front of the mirror.

"I don't understand why someone who has repeatedly refused the knighthood thinks it's important to wear evening wear to the symphony," I grumbled.

"Two entirely different issues, John," he replied as he reached around me from behind to begin tying the tie. "The peerage is based on the absurd notion that a person's worth can be measured by the title they have. I find that idea repulsive. The wearing of formal wear is entirely different. It makes a statement about the activity that you're doing. It says that where you're going _matters._ It says that the music _matters._ It's honoring the years of training and effort that the performers have put into in order to perform it for you. It signals to those that you're with that they _matter,_ that this is _special_ and _important _and that they're worth the effort_._"

He finished and stepped back with a satisfied smile at his handiwork, "There, what do you think?"

"I think you're brilliant, and I'll never complain about the suit again."

He flushed slightly and smiled.

We finished getting ready and headed out to Angelo's for our dinner. Naturally, our appearance in such finery caused a bit of a stir and Angelo insisted on the candlelit table by the window. He seemed to think that such a "handsome couple" would bring in more business.

"I'm more likely to frighten them off," I muttered to myself. I always feel like an ugly duckling compared to Sherlock, and I felt the formal wear only enhanced the difference in our relative physical beauty.

But, I soon had no time for such gloomy thoughts, as I was extremely cautious to avoid getting any food on my plumage. This meant that I took extremely small, slow, careful bites of my dinner. This was a source of great amusement to Sherlock who, to my great surprise, had ordered a bottle of Chianti with dinner.

"What's the occasion?" I asked in surprise.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "John, that may just be the dumbest question you've ever asked me."

I felt foolish but defended myself, "Well, it's just that you hardly ever drink."

"Hardly ever, but not _never_. And, I'm hoping it will help you relax a bit."

I chuckled, "That's quite the turnaround, isn't it? _You_ trying to get _me_ to relax."

"I'm hoping that by the end of the bottle, you'll be wearing the suit, rather than the suit wearing you."

I huffed in annoyance, took a large swallow of the wine and glared at him.

Sherlock smiled.

I found I couldn't stay angry at him. I smiled back.

By the end of the meal, I was certainly more relaxed, especially since I had succeeded in not blemishing my clothing.

Angelo again refused to take our money, so we wandered out to catch a cab to the Barbican.

As we made our way down the street a bit Sherlock turned and looked at me appreciatively, "There's my handsome Doctor," he said.

"Shut up! You're going to make me self-conscious again," I growled.

Sherlock shook his head, "You really shouldn't be."

"How much did you drink, Sherlock?"

"Very funny. Anybody would think that I habitually mistreat you."

"Correct, anybody would."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, then spotted a cab, "Taxi!"

Once we arrived at the Barbican, I made up my mind that I was going to take Sherlock's advice and relax. Last time we had done this I had spent the evening wishing I was invisible, feeling as if everyone was looking at me to mock me. I decided that this time I would project the same unconcerned self-confidence that Sherlock always seemed to exude. I was just tipsy enough to convince myself that I could pull it off.

Instead of slinking along behind him, I strode by Sherlock's side, refusing to worry about whether anyone was staring at us. (Were they? I wouldn't know, I refused to look).

Sherlock had said that the concert was going to be Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. However, that wasn't going to be played until after intermission. Two shorter pieces made up the first half of the program.

According to the program notes, the first two pieces were chosen to honor the victims and survivors of the September 11, 2001 attacks. The ten year anniversary had occurred earlier that month. The two pieces chosen were by one American composer, Aaron Copland, and one British composer, James Whitbourn.(1)

The Copland piece was "Fanfare for the Common Man," which I had heard before. It sounds very American; bold, confident, with lots of brass and booming drums. It seemed like a good choice - the sound of determined optimism and triumph over adversity.

The second piece took me completely by surprise. It was called "He Carried Me Away in the Spirit." It was a choral piece using a text from the Bible about having a glimpse of heaven. Almost from the first notes of the piece I found myself deeply moved. The angelic voices of the sopranos swirled around the hall, and I seemed to suddenly feel the presence of friends I had lost in the war. As the music flowed their faces drifted through my vision. The faces of Joe, and Tom, and Billy and so many others - faces I had refused to remember, avoiding the memories of pain, blood, and loss. As the music flowed through me, it seemed to bring all of them before me. All of the memories somehow were good ones: our practical jokes, our poker nights, the days that the care packages came, the missions successfully completed...

As the piece drew to a close, I felt something brush against my hand. I suddenly returned to earth, and realized that Sherlock was trying to hand me something. It was a handkerchief. As my fingers closed around it, I became aware that tears were streaming down my face.

I quickly dabbed them away and glanced over at Sherlock with an apologetic smile. He wasn't looking at me, but instead appeared absorbed in the finish of the piece. By the time the applause was over, I had regained my composure and I handed Sherlock's handkerchief back to him.

"Are you alright?" he asked me quietly.

"Yes, thanks."

"Do you want to get up for intermission? Get a drink or anything?"

Most of the audience was moving for the exits.

"No, I'm fine, really." I cleared my throat. "I just found that last piece very…. It brought back memories..."

"I'm sorry, John."

"No, it's ok. It might sound odd, but...it was good."

After giving me a brief but searching stare, Sherlock nodded and turned his attention to his program. I began watching those around me and noticed that I was not the only one who had, apparently, been moved to tears by the music. It was rather comforting to know that I was not the only one who had been touched in that way.

As I sat thinking, still awash in memories, I decided that it was long past time that I go and see some of my army buddies, both the living and the dead. I hadn't realized how ruthlessly I had cut myself off from most of them. Colonel Hayter ("Mike," I reminded myself) was the only one I had any contact with since returning.

I was smiling to myself, feeling lighter and as if an inner knot had somehow loosened, when the lights went down for the second half of the program.

TBC...

**A/N ****(1)**: This program of music is my invention, as far as I know, the LSO has not ever had such a program. (I haven't looked to see what they're planning for the upcoming season).


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Warning - Slash (but not on the physical level - mental/emotional only). Chapter is mostly John's thoughts as he realizes something important...

Some profanity.

**Beta: **Jarri Scythe - thanks so much!

A Night at the Symphony - 3

I was in a state of anticipation as the music began. I had some familiarity with the piece. Just about everyone has heard the "Ode to Joy" at the end of the symphony. I wasn't as familiar with the first three movements, but I was looking forward to the experience of hearing the entire piece played and sung live.

The first two movements seemed to rush by; particularly the second caught me up and I felt rather like a cork bobbing along the stream of the music. I was being carried by the waves of sound, where to, I didn't know.

The third movement then began, and it was slow and dreamy. I was no longer bobbing along a bubbling stream of music but languidly floating in a peacefully swirling atmosphere of music that whispered of love and contentment. I'm not sure exactly when, but something began to subtly change inside of me.

The first thing I noticed was that my left shoulder was very warm, oddly so. Perhaps I noticed because it was my injured shoulder and warmth always tended to cause the scarred tissue to stretch and relax slightly. I shifted just a bit and discovered that I was pressed up against Sherlock's right shoulder, and the warmth I was feeling was from him. I smiled slightly to myself; it was a little funny to me that someone who was so often cold, both physically and emotionally, seemed to be radiating heat.

Because it felt good, and maybe because I was still a little tipsy, I worked my way just a bit closer to him to take advantage of the heat for my shoulder. I half expected Sherlock to shift away from me, but he didn't react at all. I sighed contentedly to myself and sank back into the bliss of the music.

I again lost most of my outward consciousness, enveloped by the warm cocoon of sound. What brought me out of it was a sudden realization that I was about to reach over the arm rest and clasp Sherlock's hand. It was as if some subconscious part of my mind, awakened by the music, was about to act, and the last vestiges of my logical brain screamed an alarm at the last moment, just as I started to move my muscles.

_What the hell?_ My logical brain was startled into full wakefulness. However, whatever had been sleeping wasn't willing to back down immediately. I was suddenly aware of a feeling of longing.

But longing for what?

I wanted to hold Sherlock's hand.

_Why?_

My logical mind had no idea.

_I want...I want...Sherlock?_

No, not possible. But there it was, and a thousand memories rushed through my mind: smiles, laughter, tentative embraces. I discovered my fingers spread wide, gripping my thighs as I remembered running my hands over Sherlock earlier that day.

_I was only checking his body weight._

Then why were my fingertips alive with electricity from just the memory of it?

_I'm drunk, I'm tired, I'm emotionally vulnerable from what happened earlier. It's temporary insanity and it will go away if I just think of something else for a few minutes._

Of course, the more you want to NOT think of something, the more you DO think about it. So I gave up on that plan pretty quickly and decided to try and figure out where these thoughts and feelings were coming from so I could work through them, and quickly. It simply wouldn't do to still be feeling this way later -

_when I actually have to go to bed with him. Oh dear God, what is WRONG with me? _

I gave myself a mental slap from images of going to bed with Sherlock later.

_What have I got myself into?_

I was clenching my jaw and giving myself a stern lecture.

_You CAN'T want Sherlock! You're straight and he's... whatever he is... but he doesn't want YOU! Remember how he pulled away just this afternoon? He uses autoerotic orgasms only as a substitute for drugs. He thinks sex is dirty and disgusting and even disapproves of kissing. Even if you wanted this (and you don't) it just isn't going to happen, better to realize this right now and get over it...whatever "it" is that you're getting over._

I leaned back slightly in my chair and forced my hands to release their grip on my legs.

_It's no use, I think I love him. This is a bit not good. How? When did this happen? Oh you idiot, it's been since always. For God's sake you killed a man for him barely 24 hours after meeting him. You've offered to die for him, almost killed for him again down in Surrey. Better question is, did I ever NOT love him? So why am I suddenly aware of it now? Unimportant. What you need to do now is to squash this and quickly. SHERLOCK CAN'T KNOW! If he did, it would ruin everything! Dear God, now that I'm aware of it how am I going to hide it from him? He'll know as soon as the lights come up, if he hasn't figured it out already, just by the way my hands keep twitching._

I twisted them together in my lap, hoping that by keeping them clenched I would stop moving them restlessly against my legs.

_My only hope is that his relative inexperience in romantic issues will blind him somewhat. He already knows I have a certain amount of affection for him. He may not notice a change if I'm very careful. I've just GOT to get over this!_

I concentrated on breathing, just the simple in and out of air. Then I began to focus on the music again. The third movement was drawing to a close. I knew the fourth movement was going to be much louder and faster than the third, which should help to redirect my mind.

If I wanted to curse Beethoven for somehow bewitching me into loving Sherlock, I had to thank him for the final movement because it certainly helped me deal with my sudden realization. The glorious crescendo of the piece couldn't help but distract me and it somehow helped to put things in perspective.

So what if I discovered that I was a little in-love with Sherlock? It wasn't the worst thing in the world. After all, he was handsome, a genius, a gifted musician, and could certainly be personally charming when he chose to be. What isn't to love? Not so surprising that I would fall a little under his spell. But he certainly had his dark side, something to keep me from having any foolish romantic notions about what a relationship with him would entail. No, he was better off as he was, and I was better off in my current role: his doctor, confidante, and sometimes partner on cases. Besides, did I REALLY want a physical relationship? I still couldn't picture kissing him or anything really sexual. But, on the other hand, the idea of just running my hands over his body had my hands twitching again. I did want _something_ physical with him, I just wasn't quite sure what.

_Time for more deep breathing._

After a few minutes more, I calmed again and the yearning subsided into a manageable twinge in my chest. As the "Ode to Joy" surged powerfully around me I realized that it would all be fine. Sherlock, in his own way, was just as attached to me as I was to him, just in a different way. He needed me, just as surely as I needed him. Somehow, it would be ok. I would be careful, and he would remain distant, and we would love each other the only way we knew how, and it would be fine.

I was smiling as the symphony ended, feeling somewhat at peace, or at least not in a state of panic. There was lengthy applause, and the house lights came up.

Sherlock turned to me, eyes alight with pleasure, drunk from the ecstasy of the music, "Well John, what did you think?"

"It was...amazing. Thanks so much for this."

He beamed with happiness.

"I told you you'd like it."

I looked at him, resplendent in his white tie, so tall and striking with his dark hair and gray eyes.

_God, you're so beautiful. Oh crap..._

"What's the matter, John?"

"Nothing, just ah, sensory overload I think. It's such a powerful piece; I feel...a little overwhelmed I guess."

If anything, this seemed to make Sherlock happier.

"Well then, let's go home and get you to bed."

_...Damn...just...damn..._

Sherlock's hand seemed to be burning into my lower back as he steered me through the crowd to the exits.

_...Damn..._

_What've I done to deserve this?_

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Warnings - More fluff. Mildly sexual situations - nothing graphic (one-sided only). Some profanity.

**Beta:** The very patient and helpful Jarri Scythe

A Night at the Symphony - 4

Sherlock herded me through the dispersing crowd and out to catch a taxi home. I was in a bit of a daze from my newfound revelation, coming down from my slight alcohol buzz, and the emotional turmoil of the evening.

I knew I had to maintain my composure at all costs; I just wasn't mentally or emotionally prepared for Sherlock to find out about my newly discovered feelings. I hadn't had a chance to properly sort through them myself yet.

As usual Sherlock was able to magic a cab almost immediately, and I sank gratefully into the dark interior, Sherlock following. Once we were on our way Sherlock turned to me and gave me a searching look.

"Are you sure you're alright John?"

"I'm fine, just a little wrung out. I wasn't expecting the September 11th tribute. It was...surprisingly moving. It made me think about friends I lost in Afghanistan." _True, so far as it goes!_

Sherlock looked skeptical.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. It was a good birthday present. I enjoyed it. I think it was...good for me to realize what I've been holding in." _If he only knew!_

Sherlock stared hard at me for a few seconds. I forced myself to hold his gaze and remain calm. After a few seconds he gave a satisfied nod and dropped his scrutiny.

"I didn't know that was going to be the first half of the program. If I had I would've mentioned it ahead of time."

I smiled. "It's ok Sherlock. I'm not that fragile. A good cry is good now and then. It's cleansing."

Sherlock looked like he disagreed, but was trying to be considerate and not voice it.

I chuckled, "Leave it, Sherlock. I'm fine, just tired a bit is all."

I yawned largely to emphasize my point.

We rode the rest of the way home in silence. After we were inside the flat Sherlock turned to me and said sharply, "You're limping John. Why are you limping?"

I scowled at him but refused to answer.

Sherlock looked suspicious, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Good grief Sherlock! Since when are you so interested in my state of mind? I'm _fine_. I'm a little overly-emotional at the moment, and tired, but I'm _fine_. I just want to get to bed and get some rest so I'm fit for visiting Mycroft tomorrow." _Oh God! Mycroft! Another Holmes to try and bluff. I'm so buggered..._

Sherlock shrugged, "Alright. I guess I just feel a little - responsible - for you being upset."

I successfully resisted the urge to break into hysterical giggles. Instead, I turned and limped toward the bedroom tossing over my shoulder with a smile, "Don't. Remember, I'm the fool who invaded Afghanistan."

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a second, taking in some deep breaths. If I didn't get - whatever this was - under control soon my life was going to become a living hell.

The sooner I got to bed and got some sleep, the better off I was going to be. I fervently hoped that Sherlock would follow his usual routine and put off coming to bed for at least another hour, when I could at least pretend I was asleep, even if I really wasn't.

I undressed and put on pajamas as quickly as possible, then emerged from the bedroom to go brush my teeth.

The scene in the sitting room had my heart in my throat instantly. Sherlock had removed his jacket, tie, vest, shoes, and socks and had unbuttoned the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He was standing in the middle of the floor with his violin under his chin, evidently just finishing preparations to play it. Seeing him in his disheveled finery nuzzling his face into the chin rest and his long, graceful fingers curling lovingly over the instrument was decidedly _not helping_ with my current inner turmoil. I limped my way to the bathroom.

_Christ!_ I breathed to myself, not knowing if it was an oath or a prayer for help.

I stared at myself in the mirror, as I heard the first notes of music from the sitting room. I was praying that he was going to engage in one of his "experimental" pieces, when he tried to get the most outlandish sounds possible from the bloody thing. That would definitely help to clear my head.

I should have known better. The universe was not inclined to show me any mercy.

Instead, I heard him duplicating some of the melodies from Beethoven's Ninth. Mostly ones from the problematic (for me) third movement. Of course. Clearly, some evil entity had decided that I needed to be tortured in every way possible this evening.

Sherlock wasn't duplicating the melodies directly, but weaving elements of them into what I assumed was an arrangement he was coming up with spontaneously. But, they were similar enough to remind me of the comfortable warmth of his body next to mine, the desire to caress his body, hold his hand...

I shook my head and glared at myself in the mirror. I realized that the torture was really coming from myself. I could stop this; absolutely nothing had materially changed this evening. So I had become aware of some sort of romantic attraction I had for Sherlock. So what? I was overreacting. If a man can't face the truths about himself, then he really is a coward. I was going to brush my teeth, then march out there and tell Sherlock goodnight just the way I always did. And that's exactly what I did do.

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge me; he was lost in his music, swaying slightly as he played. So I watched him for a few minutes, and if there was an added element to my usual interest, well, he would never know, would he?

I went to the bedroom and shut the door, just as I would normally and crawled into the bed, heaving a sigh of relief. My leg and shoulder ached dully, as did my heart, but I ignored all of them, or tried to anyway. I could still hear Sherlock playing in the living room, although he was playing more quietly now, probably trying to let me go to sleep.

My heart gave a sudden lurch when I heard Sherlock begin playing Elgar's "Nimrod." Was he thinking about me? And if he was, what were his thoughts?

As the music went on, I did finally start to feel sleepy. Sherlock finished the piece and I only heard silence after that. As I drifted off to sleep, it did pass through my mind that if nothing else, I could take comfort that I was the one that Sherlock wanted to share a bed with, even if we weren't sexually involved. That meant something, didn't it?

That night, I had one of my recurring dreams about Afghanistan. I hadn't had a severe war nightmare since Sherlock and I had started sleeping together, but this one was as bad as any I ever had. It was one of several that regularly rotated through my REM cycle: I was responding to the scene of a Taliban attack on a unit. There were so many severely wounded that I knew I couldn't possibly help them all. I ran to help the most injured, but they each died just as I reached them while the remaining survivors screamed for help. I was calling frantically for additional help that never came, cursing and begging, and trying to exhort the dying to stay with me. It ended as all the bad ones do, with me startled awake, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, temporarily disoriented.

I collapsed back on the bed, trying to breathe deeply.

The bedroom door opened and I saw Sherlock silhouetted in the doorway.

"John?"

"Yeah," I croaked.

"Are you alright? I heard you shout."

"Sorry. No, I'm fine. Just a nightmare."

He came padding across the floor, still dressed in what remained of his evening wear. He sat on the edge of the bed but kept his face turned away.

"It was the concert wasn't it?"

I interrupted, "No, Sherlock. Of course not. My nightmares are rearranged from my memories - I would have them, concert or no concert."

"But you were upset, tonight. And then you have a nightmare."

I sighed, "I can't live my life trying to avoid anything that might trigger my memories. For one thing, it's impossible, and for another it wouldn't be a life, just a half-life spent in fear. I'm only sorry that I disturbed you."

Sherlock shrugged, "I was just about to come to bed anyway."

He got off the bed and collected his pajamas, "Be back in a minute."

I laid there listening to him brush his teeth and felt my heart sink. This is just what I had wanted to avoid - being awake when Sherlock came to bed. At least the lights were off. As added protection, I turned away toward my side of the bed.

I heard him come back, and then felt the bed shift as he slid in beside me. There was a moment of silence, then I felt more movement and before I could fully comprehend what was happening, Sherlock was spooning me!

"Sherlock! What - "

"I've noticed that you don't have bad nightmares when we're together. I just want to make sure that you don't have any more."

My mouth went totally dry, as his words tickled against the back of my neck. What was worse, a certain part of my anatomy was now eager to get in on the conversation.

"I don't know if I can sleep like this," I said as calmly as I could.

"What's wrong?"

"It's a bit...warm. I'm all sweaty already."

"Yes, I noticed. A reaction to the dream."

"Yeah, so...I don't think spooning is a great idea for me right now." _Understatement of the century so far!_

"Sorry, I was just trying to help."

He shuffled back to his side of the bed.

I couldn't help smiling, "I know, I appreciate it. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

But it was a long, long time before I got back to sleep again.

END

A/N: There will be a companion piece to follow shortly - "Sunday With Mycroft" - which will pick up the narrative immediately following the events told here.


End file.
